Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
London was gray that morning. A dull, uninspired gray that settled into the bones of the house and stayed there, heavy and unmoving. The sky pressed low, cloaking the city in a colorless hush that mirrored Kitty’s chest—tight and hollow.
She sat curled on the window seat of her bedroom, her knees pulled close, a worn shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders.
The faint rattle of carriage wheels drifted in through the glass.
Somewhere far below, life went on. But up here, in the quiet stillness of her father’s townhouse, time had dulled to a slow crawl.
A week.
It had been a week.
Seven days since Norman had looked at her as though he had never known her. Seven nights since she had left him standing alone in that studio, her heart in her throat and her voice cracking on his name.
Not a letter. Not a word. Not even a servant sent in his place.
She had told herself—at first—that he only needed time. That he was angry, confused, caught up in the scandal Cynthia had so carefully spun like a spider’s web. He would write. He would come. He would remember who she was, who they had been. Surely. Surely, he would.
But the days had passed, and nothing came.
And Kitty… Kitty had stopped pretending.
Her fingers curled tighter around the shawl.
It was one her mother had knitted long ago—ivory wool, worn thin at the edges, soft with age.
She remembered wearing it at ten years old when she’d scraped her knee in the garden, and again the year her cat died.
Somehow, in all these years, this shawl had become the one thing she reached for when her heart ached beyond words.
She closed her eyes.
Had she truly been so blind? Again?
He had promised her protection. He had sworn she could trust him. But the very first test of that faith—and he had not even asked her what was true.
He had listened to Cynthia.
She felt the betrayal like a bruise that would not stop blooming. Not just for what he had done—but for what he had failed to do. He had left her undefended before all those eyes. Had let her name be dragged through the mud as if it meant nothing at all.
And now?
Now she sat in a city that looked less and less like home each day and wondered why she had ever come back at all.
A soft knock sounded against the doorframe.
“Kitty?” Jane’s voice was quiet, tentative.
Kitty did not turn. “You may come in.”
The bed creaked gently as Jane sat on the edge, the rustle of skirts whispering through the silence. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Jane exhaled slowly.
“It’s too quiet here.”
Kitty let out a sound that was not quite a laugh. “I suppose that suits me now.”
“I wish you’d say something more than that,” Jane said gently. “You haven’t been yourself since we returned.”
“I am myself,” Kitty murmured. “Or perhaps I am exactly who I was always meant to be. A fool who thought herself wiser than she was.”
“Don’t say that.”
Kitty turned then, just slightly, her cheek pressed against the glass, her breath fogging a small patch of it. Outside, the clouds hung heavy over the rooftops. “London is not what I remembered. Or perhaps I simply hoped it had changed.”
“Or perhaps you have,” Jane offered.
“Perhaps,” Kitty echoed. Her voice was dry. “Or perhaps I made the mistake of believing I could be happy in a place like this. I’m not used to…to this.”
Jane reached for her hand. “This place did not break you. People did.”
Kitty did not respond. She stared through the window at the thin spines of trees rattling in the wind below. The shawl slipped slightly from her shoulders, but she did not move to catch it.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said at last. “Perhaps I ought to leave. Go back abroad.”
Jane stiffened. “You mean to Venice?”
“No,” Kitty said, her lips tightening. “Not Venice. I don’t think I could bear to hear the name again. But somewhere else. Somewhere far. Vienna, perhaps. Or Paris. Or the coast. Or Moscow…we have never been there.”
A silence passed between them.
“I came back here thinking I could finally… build something,” Kitty whispered. “That I could plant new roots and stand on steadier ground. I thought Norman would be part of that. I believed him when he said he would stand by me.”
Jane squeezed her hand gently. “You didn’t imagine it, Kitty. I saw the way he looked at you. I saw what you were to each other.”
Kitty’s throat closed. She looked down at her lap. “Then why did he not believe me?”
“I don’t know.”
“I loved him,” Kitty said, as if the admission hurt. And it did. It seared. “I loved him more than I have ever loved anyone. And now all I feel is… shame. And this unbearable ache in my chest that won’t go away.”
Jane leaned her head gently against Kitty’s shoulder. “He was a coward, not a villain. But that does not mean he deserves you.”
Kitty’s voice wavered. “I keep waking up in the middle of the night thinking I heard the front bell. Thinking there will be a letter. A knock. Anything. But it’s never him. It’s never anything.”
Jane said nothing to that. There was nothing to say.
The silence stretched long again, save for the distant tolling of a bell somewhere in the city and the soft hum of wind past the window panes.
Then came the sound of the door opening downstairs. Footsteps. The low murmur of a voice.
A few moments later, Richard appeared in the doorway.
“Forgive me,” he said, stepping in with a nod. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“You’re not,” Kitty said softly, wiping hastily at the corner of her eyes with her shawl.
Richard’s expression was uncharacteristically solemn. “I’ve come to see how you are.”
Kitty hesitated. “I imagine everyone knows by now.”
Richard inclined his head. “The postponement has made the rounds. As for Cynthia’s letter—most know only what she chose to say in the courtyard. And most do not believe her.”
“Does Norman?” Kitty asked, the bitterness creeping back into her tone before she could help it.
Richard said nothing.
“That’s all I needed to know.”
He looked at her with something like pity, but not condescension. Only the quiet understanding of a father who had seen too many good things fall apart.
“I’m not sure I belong here anymore,” Kitty said softly.
“You don’t have to stay,” Richard said gently. “The city has not been kind to you. You owe it nothing.”
Jane looked up, her hand still holding Kitty’s. “She was just saying the same. About leaving.”
“I think you should,” Richard said without hesitation. “Take time. Space. Go somewhere you can breathe.”
Kitty let out a trembling sigh. “Then we should begin packing. If I wait any longer, I may begin hoping again.”
“Then let’s not wait,” Richard said. “You’ve given London enough of yourself. It is time you get some peace.”
Kitty stood slowly. Her legs were weak beneath her, her body still worn thin from sleepless nights and the sick, silent weight of heartbreak. But she stood. And that was something.
She crossed to the writing desk and looked down at the unopened letters piled there. Not a single one bore Norman’s handwriting.
“Do you suppose he ever loved me?” she asked the room.
Richard did not lie to her. “Yes,” he said after a pause. “But he did not know how to love you well.”
Kitty’s breath caught in her throat. She nodded once, and that was all.
Jane stood beside her, her voice warm but firm. “We’ll go where you wish, Kitty. And when you’re ready—when your heart no longer feels like it’s still breaking—you’ll know what comes next.”
Kitty reached up and brushed a stray tear from her cheek.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be the same.”
“Then don’t be,” Jane whispered. “Be something new.”
And in the quiet, Kitty allowed herself—just for a moment—to imagine that new version of herself.
Not whole, not yet. But not broken either.
Only breathing.
And still standing.
It had been three days since they’d agreed to leave.
The servants had begun sorting through trunks and wardrobes. Jane had begun writing to distant acquaintances abroad to ask for recommendations on rentals. Even Richard, true to his word, had begun discreetly arranging their affairs so they could depart quickly, quietly.
But Kitty had not packed a single dress.
She told herself it was because she had time. But the truth was, the act of folding gowns into trunks felt too much like a final admission. As if she were burying something. And she was not yet ready for that.
Even if the something was already gone.
Behind her, the door opened.
Richard’s footsteps were soft, but she knew his tread—steady and composed, as if even his grief wore a waistcoat.
“There’s news,” he said gently.
She turned, and something in his face made her throat tighten.
“It’s the duke,” he added. “Or rather… his entire family.”
Kitty’s arms dropped to her sides. “What has happened?”
Richard glanced toward Jane, who set her teacup aside with care, then back to Kitty.
“It broke this morning,” he said. “The papers will have it by tomorrow, I suspect. The late Duke Egerton’s financial dealings have come under scrutiny. It seems Norman has made legal moves to sever his own liability from his father’s affairs. He’s begun proceedings to settle the debts. Publicly.”
Kitty’s lips parted in disbelief. “He’s making it public?”
Richard nodded. “It appears so. And that’s not all. Mr. Brown—his solicitor—has been named directly. There’s talk of blackmail. Fraud. There may be criminal charges.”
Jane gasped. “But that would mean…”
“A scandal. Yes,” Richard said grimly, “Everything Cynthia hinted at was true. There was a scandal looming over us. However, it didn’t come from you—it came from him.”
Kitty pressed a hand to the back of the settee, her fingers tightening against the velvet.
Her thoughts spun.
Why would he do this? After all his careful avoidance of scandal, after meticulously burying the truth for so long—why drag it all into the light now?
Now the truth had been laid bare.
She should have felt vindicated. Triumphant, even. But all she felt was hollow.